


Fate Plays Chess

by lubilu17



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, F/F, F/M, Hélène Centric, Major character death - Freeform, Suicide, bc i love her, idk what else to tag, like lots of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 21:51:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lubilu17/pseuds/lubilu17
Summary: Hélène reflects.OrA character study of Hélène in her final moments





	Fate Plays Chess

Hélène thinks whiskey tastes like regrets, tastes like drunken kisses in shadows, tastes like mistakes. It's not her drink of choice, yet she would never think to refuse a glass if it was offered, whiskey is the drink of late nights around a fire, nights that Hélène has never given herself the chance to enjoy. She thinks rum tastes like burnt butterscotch, it reminds her of herself, the potential to be beautiful and sweet but tainted by smoke and fire. Hélène would only drink rum in tea, where she can forget that it's there. Vodka is not drunk for fun anymore, it's a way to forget. It used to burn her throats as she drank but now she's grown to treat the burn like an old friend, comforting, reliable, trusting. To her vodka is late nights in clubs, never quiet or peaceful but always welcomed. Red wine is elegant, a crystal glass held in dainty hands, liquid staining lips like blood, there were no doubts that wine was her drink of choice

Drinking was a sociable thing in Hélène's opinion, drinking alone meant you were sad and lonely, Drinking with friends, lovers or even just acquaintances made everything seem more bearable and joyous.

Wine was beautiful but not what Hélène needed tonight. No, Hélène needed vodka, its strength enough to drown out the taste. To drown out the taste of arsenic.

_  
She can remember drinking with Anatole, their first sips of wine as children, through giggles as if they were committing some kind of sinful act._

_"Come on Lana, Father won't be back until tomorrow he'll never find out!" Anatole, only twelve, pleaded with his sister, softening his eyes in the way he knew she could never resist._

_"Fine, but not too much. If he finds out he'll have our heads on spikes." Hélène had relented, never able to stand up to her brother when he truly wanted something, even at a young age._

_They'd found an old bottle of wine in the cellar where their Father would never send any of the servants to get a drink from. It had been left over from one of their balls months ago, no one would notice it was gone and if they did they'd never suspect the Prince and Princess. She'd found two crystal glasses in a cabinet in one of the dining rooms swiping them and taking them back up to her room with the bottle._

_Hélène had let brother pour her drink into the glass as he moved his arm with a flourish when he'd finished. He hadn't poured it carefully some had spilled over the side of the glass, dripping onto the back of her hand and trailing down her wrist. She'd brought the wrist up to her lips and traced her tongue over the liquid savouring the taste. It was nothing like she'd ever tasted, sweet yet sour at the same time, the alcohol only slightly overpowering. She enjoyed the taste. Anatole on the other hand had flinched as he took his first gulp from the glass, his nose wrinkling up adorably and coughing slightly. Hélène had laughed at him, snorting slightly when he took another gulp - this time much smaller - and had the same reaction._

_"Maybe you're just not made out to drink dear brother." she'd said through her laughs._

_"Maybe you're just made out to me mean to me sweet sister." He'd retorted as quip as a whip cracking in the air, his own voice tinged with laughter._

_She'd had another glass that night but never lost herself in the unknown pleasures of the wine but the familiarity of jokes with her brother._

_  
Wine was her and Anatole's drink of choice at the balls held at their estate. He was sixteen now, she seventeen, they'd stood off to the side, his arm wrapped round her waist, both holding glasses of blood red liquid. They'd be stared at by all of the guests, the two siblings who never showed any interest in anyone else as a companion._

_When they weren't stood off to the side they'd be on the dance floor, lost in their own worlds, graceful and perfectly synchronised. The metallic thread woven into a Hélène's dress sparkled in the light from the chandeliers, the gems on her fingers reflected light into Anatole's pale skin, the pearls wrapped round her neck shining slightly against her skin. Anatole's hands pressed at her waist and hands, his chin rested on her shoulder. All of a sudden he had laughed in her ear, high and graceful._

_"Pierre decided to show up anyway I see." He had murmured before spinning her under his arm._

_"Why would he want to pass up on any opportunity to drink?" She had replied when she was safely back in his arms._

_They'd watched Pierre from where they'd twirled round the floor, watched how he'd made a fool of himself talking to other guests, progressively getting drunker throughout the evening. They'd watched Pierre from their secluded corner, hidden away with dainty crystal glasses filled to the brim with wine, taking tiny sips of the drink to keep up the appearance of being Vasili Kuragin's porcelain dolls, perfect._

_After all of the guests had filed out of their great ball ballroom, the two siblings had fallen back onto Hélène's bed another bottle of wine between the pair, taking turns to drink out of the bottle. Anatole had stopped coughing every time he took a sip, he had found it in himself to sit down and drink bottle after bottle of wine to grow up used to the taste. They'd spent the night there curled up with each other, young but in no way innocent._

_It had been perfect._

He wouldn't reply to her letters. Why wouldn't he reply to her letters? All she was asking was simple, just to say their marriage wasn't consummated, that all he had to do then she could marry again. Then she could be free. Parchment scattered her vanity, quills with broken nibs from where she'd pressed down too hard lay on top, ink stains both the parchment and the vanity. Letters she'd written in a frenzy all too illegible to send to anybody. All of them written in panic all because her husband couldn't finalise their divorce.

If paper was scattering her vanity, cloth was covering her floor, days worth of clothes strewn about when she'd stopped letting servants near her, stopped letting people see her as she is now; broken and in dire need of help, left with the baby of a man she could never love, left with a baby she could never love.

Her handwriting, once curling and beautiful now clumsy and strained covered another sheet of paper, another letter to her husband that he'd never reply to, another letter that'd add to her demise.

She took another gulp of vodka, not yet having the courage to add the arsenic.

_They'd drunk whiskey around a fire the night they'd got married, her and Pierre, well Pierre had drunk whiskey, she'd taken to drinking bottles of wine. The flames had licked the side of the hearth as he'd kissed her his mouth tasting of the drink and the food they'd eaten just after the wedding. There was no feeling in the kisses on either part of the pair, they were just doing what the needed for their marriage. If she tried hard enough she could almost imagine she was kissing someone else, she could pretend that it wasn't her husband she was kissing, she could pretend she was kissing someone she cared about._

_They'd moved from one of the studies to their room, both taking their respective drinks, Pierre with his bottle of whiskey, Hélène with her bottle of wine. They both knew the other didn't love them, that much was obvious, Pierre had his heart set on a woman Hélène had never met, Hélène had hers set on anybody but Pierre._

_They never actually consummated their marriage that night, they hadn't brought themselves to do it, instead they'd sat and talked, talked of the worlds Pierre had read in books, the world outside of Russia that Hélène had always wanted to visit. They'd talked of the people that'd been at their wedding, the clothes they'd worn and the way they'd made fools of themselves talking to other guests. They'd talked of Anatole and his friends and their activities. They'd laughed at Anatole and the way he'd sulked around the wedding._

_They'd talked not as husband and wife but as friends._

_The moon had been full that night, its light streaming through the windows of their room, casting shadows on their faces._

_They'd fallen asleep with their fingers entangled._

_Their relationship had turned sour in the years they'd been married, she'd spent her time having affairs with whoever took her fancy, he'd spent his time drinking whiskey, reading books, and shooting the man he'd thought she was having an affair with. He'd been wrong though, she hadn't had an affair with Dolokov she'd left those activities up to her brother. But Pierre, being as misguided and as drunk as he was, had shot him and now Hélène would have to deal with the consequences._

_He'd thrown a table that night. He'd thrown a table and she'd thrown as many goading words as she could right back at him. His breath had stank of whiskey and vodka, hers of venomous words and painful insults. He'd used word of her rumoured affairs against her, she'd used the fact he'd almost killed a man. He took to drinking straight from his bottle foregoing a glass, she'd stopped drinking all together._

_"I'm the innocent party here. How can I reenter society now after you've ruined my reputation?" She'd feigned innocence to try get sympathy from him but to no avail._

_"To what extent are you innocent, you've had affairs for the length of our marriage. How can you expect me to stand by and do nothing?" He'd growled over the rim of his bottle before swinging it up between his lips. He had been right of course, Pierre was to clever, even when drunk out of his mind, to lie to her during an argument. He might have been clever and truthful but Hélène had been brought up to be manipulative and powerful._

_"I'm only having affairs to make up for the lack of affection my husband gives me." That was when he'd thrown the table at her in his anger._

_She'd always thought Pierre was a good man, drunk, unhappy, and ridiculous but a good man. She wasn't so sure after that._

_They'd fallen asleep with miles of space between them._

She managed to shatter her mirror with a well aimed fist, blood now ran down the back of her hand and down her wrist. The skin of her knuckles cracked where they'd met the glass. The mirror had that patina of age over the silver frame, additionally the surface of the glass that remained in the frame was splotched black in places, the fault of not cleaning it for months. Hélène sat and stared at herself, or at least the distorted image of herself, multiplied in shards of glass, stared at the distorted shell of a woman.

The mirror was once her most trusted friend, to some extent it still was, a friend who's truths were not spoken in words but in the reflection of the woman sat before it. Hélène once youthful and beautiful, the most powerful person in Moscow's society, now sunken and hollow, an outcast, shunned by the ones who'd once treasured her. Large brown eyes that once held to power to seduce, entice and attract, once glittered like the moonlight against snow, now dull and lifeless, sunken into her skin. Curled hair once piled artistically on top of her head, not a single hair out of place now fell limply around her shoulders, greased and oily in a state Hélène would have never let herself get into not even a year ago. The mirror once her friend, showing a perfect doll, easy to mould to societies tastes now showed a cracked porcelain doll, abandoned in the corner of a child room to never be played with again because it was ruined. She was ruined.

She could write to Anatole, to Dolokov, to Natasha. Yes, Natasha could talk to Pierre get him to see her letters. But that plan had its own downsides, the letter might not even be read, Natasha would want nothing to do with her after the failed elopement, she was Pierre's wife yet Natasha was the one who loved him she was just the person in Natasha's way, finally, Marya had probably told Natasha to stay away from anything related to Hélène. That sound like something Marya would do. She would write to Natasha with the slightest hope that it'd be read, Natasha had a kind heart, she'd tell Pierre what Hélène had done. Letters will also be written to her brother and Dolokov, apology letters, goodbye letters, a farewell to all of their good times together. The letter to Marya had been written months, she'd started it the day of the elopement and kept adding to it every time something of note happened to Hélène, she'd add her final words to it and sign it of with a flourish.

Hélène mixed the vodka and the arsenic.

_Hélène and Dolokov had curled up together in Dolokov's bed and drank vodka, passing a bottle between themselves, her head rested on his shoulder, his head thrown back against the headboard. They weren't having an affair, not like all of Moscow thought they were, Hélène had left all of those activities to her brother, they were just friends, very close friends._

_"This always ends up happening, you have some kind of fight with your husband and come running to me, I have an altercation with your brother and come running to you. It's no wonder people think we're having an affair." Dolokov had stated passing the bottle to Hélène._

_"Let them think, it's better they think that than know what's truly happening." She'd mumbled in return, her lips surrounding the bottle._

_If anyone had entered the room they'd have looked like lovers, legs entangled with each other's, Hélène's skirts spread out behind her, Dolokov's jackets had been thrown on the floor, the buttons on his waistcoat undone. He had played with the rings on her fingers, the simple, gold wedding band round the ring finger on her left hand, plain, empty of any jewels, any decoration, truthful to her marriage, the ring on the ring finger on her right hand held a more decorative golden ring, it held two gems, one a blood red ruby, that'd been for Dolokov, his recklessness and thirst for blood, the second and deep green emerald, Anatole and his stupid, beloved green coat. Dolokov had played with them both, twisting her wedding band in circles, tracing the gems that held more meaning than he could have ever imagined._

_They'd talked of their affairs with their respective partners Dolokov with Anatole and Hélène with Marya, both affairs equally taboo. It was easier to publicly have an affair with Dolokov to stop any rumours circulating around their actual affairs. Dolokov had talked of Anatole's infatuation with young girls at parties, at the opera, and his own jealousy even knowing Anatole's feelings for him. Hélène had talked of stolen kisses in empty rooms at balls, talked of lipstick stained skin, talked of soft hands gripping her waist._

_Their bottle of vodka had been finished that night with Hélène drawing the dregs from the bottom of the bottle. She'd fallen asleep in his bed, looking like the lovers they were thought to be, empty bottle slipping to the floor._

_The lights of the club had always made Hélène feel slightly dizzy, the thrum of the bass had always made her feel on edge, the smell of alcohol had always made her feel overwhelmed. The night had been a recipe for disaster from the beginning, Hélène unknowing that Anatole was going to invite Pierre had arranged to meet Marya, five players of a game of chess, only one player did not know he was in the game. Pierre, Hélène, Anatole, Hélène, Dolokov, Hélène, Marya, Hélène. It all came back to her, her and her affairs._

_Dolokov had the bottle all night, kept pouring drinks into her glass, watching her throw them back. They'd played up their act, perfect as if on a stage, Hélène had taunted her husband all night with mocking words and lingering touches on Dolokov's arms. She'd talked and danced with Marya in the shadows before she'd had to leave before her goddaughters didn't find her gone. One chess piece down. Pierre, Hélène, Anatole, Hélène, Dolokov, Hélène. Only left her brother, her husband, her supposed lover._

_She'd felt Dolokov's breath on the back of her neck before he'd even touched her, his breaths had been laboured as her brother had talked of his love for Natasha Rostova. She'd spun round in Dolokov's arms and watched as his eyes, clouded by alcohol, had darkened and had unwrapped his arms from her waist. The way he'd almost skilled to Pierre and thrown his arm around his companions shoulder had been almost predatory._

_"Here's to the health of married women!" He'd grinned, holding up he bottle in a toast, "Here's to the health of married women and their lovers!" Turned the bottle to Hélène's direction and just to spite her husband, she'd raised her glass in response._

_The first time they'd kissed all she'd been able to taste was the vodka on his tongue, the salt on his skin as she'd kissed down the side of his neck, sucking slightly on his jawbone. They were actors, trained and deadly, both kissing to spite another, to hurt their respective partners, they had been talented enough for her husband at least to believe them._

_She'd watched as he'd challenged Dolokov to a duel, the way her brother had taught him how to use a gun, the way his hands had shook. Someone in the commotion had passed her a full bottle of vodka which she brought up to her mouth. She'd watched as he'd shot Dolokov in the shoulder, her reputation had been the only thing restraining her from running down to him. She'd watched as Dolokov had raised his injured and arm and fired._

_Hélène's scream had pierced the air and the bottle had fallen to the floor with a smash._

  
Leaving the glass on her vanity on top of the parchment on her desk, Hélène brought herself to change her clothes, if it was the last time she'd been seen she'd look beautiful even with her tear stained cheeks and limp hair. Having no one to help her out of the dress she almost had to rip the threads to escape its constraints. She stepped over the fabric pooled at her ankles and stumbled, half drunk, to the clothes that had still been left up hanging.

She pulled the one closest to her down from the rail, vaguely recognising it as her wedding dress, and managed to dress herself in it. The feel of the silk on her skin only making her feel dirty, no longer a comforting feeling, it still fit her if she didn't tie up the corset, not that she could do up the corset with the small bump in her stomach reminding her of all of her problems.

With white silk trailing behind her looking like a pathway of snow she made her way into the ballroom. Tall windows had been covered by deep red, velvet drapes, collecting dust having not been opened in months, a piano sat in the corner covered by what looked like an off white bed sheet, ornate figures carved into the ceiling staring down at Hélène with disgust and shame. There were many memories in this room, the corner where her and Anatole would stand, the floor where her and Pierre had danced on occasion, the door her and Marya used to sneak out of. Each memory snuck up on her making her knees buckle under invisible pressure.

As her knees hit the floor Hélène screamed, screamed and cried and raged. Screamed at her Husband who'd left her and refused to answer her letters, her brother who'd left her to go gallivanting out in Petersburg, her brothers lover who'd left her to join her brother, her own lover who'd stoped caring about her because of her brothers actions. She screamed at God, if there was even a God out there, he'd done nothing to help her, given her no forgiveness. She screamed at all those who'd abandoned her.

Hélène made her way back to her room and downed the vodka and arsenic.

_  
Marya had woken Hélène up with a tray in her hands, a tray full of cakes, pastries, cold meats, a pot of tea, and a bottle of rum. She'd placed the tray on the bed beside Hélène and gone to pull the curtains back, letting sunlight stream into the room. As the sunlight had flooded over her body Hélène couldn't have helped but gasp ever so slightly. Marya had looked exquisite, covered only in a sheer robe, her auburn hair cascading past her shoulders, no longer in its intricate up do, deep purple bruises scattering her neck, her thighs, her chest, a reminder of Hélène's presence in her life._

_Hélène had never been a fan of rum by itself, but in tea, how Marya liked it, or on Marya's lips, then she could enjoy it. She just need the middle man. Marya had got back into the bed and pressed a line of kisses from Hélène's bare shoulders, up her neck, to her lips, before smirking and turning back to the tray of food and drink. She'd poured Hélène a cup of tea and poured a shot into the cup to fill it to the top._

_"Don't you think it's slightly too early to be drinking Mashunya?" Hélène had murmured, not wanting to ruin the quiet atmosphere of the room, whilst taking the cup from Marya._

_"You're drinking it anyway aren't you?" Marya had replied pressing a slight kiss to Hélène's lips._

_"Touché."_

_Hélène had wrapped her arm not holding the tea around Marya's neck to pull them closer together and deepen the kiss. Marya had taken the cup out of her hand and placed it on the table by the bed to make it easier to wrap Hélène up in her arms, kissing her like her life depended on it, her pale hands twisted in Hélène's hair, her legs straddling Hélène's thighs, the feather light fabric of her robe and tickled Hélène's hips, her lips attached to Hélène's neck as Hélène gasped in her arms._

_As Marya had moved further down her body, pressing kisses to almost every available spot, tongue flashing over lipstick stains one her thighs, Hélène thought her nights with Marya and the mornings with her rum were the closest she was ever going to get to God._

_One of Marya's goddaughters, Sonya, had let her into the house. For the first time in many years Hélène wasn't going to the house to visit Marya but this time to visit her other goddaughter, Natasha, the one her brother had set his sights on to convince her to go the Hélène's ball. She knew Marya wouldn't be home, they'd spoken the night before at the club before her husband had shot Dolokov. Even though she knew she wouldn't be at home there had been a small part of Hélène that had hoped Marya had not gone to the Bolkonsky's._

_Marya had showed up just as Hélène was leaving the estate, Natasha following her every move, enraptured._

_"Countess Bezukova, I hadn't expected to see you today." True surprise had been evident on Marya's face._

_"Nor had I expected to see you," Hélène had answered truthfully, "We're holding a ball tonight, Pierre and I, would you do me the honour of joining us this evening?"_

_Marya had stared right into her eyes, the stare that made Hélène feel almost naked under her eyes, before nodding and giving Hélène a curt smile._

_"Of course I will come, I've been hoping to see my dear friend Pierre soon." Hélène recognised what Marya was implying and simply raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at her with a smirk._

_"I'm sure he'd be positively ecstatic to see you. Good day, Marya, Countess Rostova." Hélène had bowed her head before ducking out of the front door._

_She'd watched as Marya had arrived at the ball, still recognisable even with a mask covering her eyes. She'd watched as Natasha had left to dance with Anatole. She'd watched as Marya had made her way over to her, a deadly smirk curling on her lips. She watched as Marya picked up a bottle of amber liquid from one of the tables on the edge of the room near Hélène. She watched as Marya finally approached her. Their fingers had intertwined as Hélène let herself be pulled out of the ballroom and into one of Pierre's disused studies._

_They'd curled up on one of the sofas, Hélène under Marya's arm, passing the bottle of rum between themselves. Hélène still didn't really like rum but was staring to get used to the taste. They'd traded the bottle and they'd traded kisses before Hélène had to get back to the ball, to greet guests._

_When back in the ballroom they'd danced, graceful, sensual, practiced lovers held in each other's arms, Marya's hand firm on Hélène's waist, her lips pressed to her collar bone only letting go of her hold to spin her partner before returning to her earlier position._

_Hélène had pulled Marya back to the unused study before the back had even ended, had let herself be pushed down onto the sofa, had let Marya pull Hélène's skirts up around her waist and kissed her hips and thighs._

_Hélène had still stood by the thought that nights with Marya were the closest to God she was ever going to get._

  
Hélène had downed the vodka and arsenic and screamed at the pain. Screamed at the pain in her throat. There was no one to run to. No one to help her. Not that she wanted any help.

The bile in her throat tasted sour. Her vomit tinged with blood. Her coughs expelled blood as well as spit. Her breathing was slowing down. Blood covered her wedding gown. Covered the parchment of the vanity. Blood covered the mirror where she'd ran her hand down the glass. It was not the graceful death she'd dreamed of as a child.

Anatole. Wine. Pierre. Whiskey. Dolokov. Vodka. Marya. Rum. All players in a game of chess to which Hélène was the King. A game of chess where the King had been taken.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments and kudos make my heart sing!


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